He reported the units had the destroyers targeted.
“We can have both missiles in the sky within thirty seconds of your orders, sir.”
Pacino decided to risk a quick look at the surface.
There were no close contacts, no patrol boats or fishing vessels, or, God help them, a supertanker en route to the tanker pier. He did an air search, looking for the type of aircraft that Admiral Donchez hinted had detected Murphy. All he saw was the moon to the south, still going in and out of the clouds, and some dim stars to the north over the P.L.A piers.
Pacino turned the crosshairs onto Target Four, the Jianghu fast frigate, and rotated the grip of the scope to raise the magnification to high power. There was no activity. Further to the left was Target Three, the Udaloy destroyer, one of Tampa’s escorts. Not a soul in sight. A bit to the left was the rudder of the Tampa, the rest obscured by the stern of the Luda destroyer, the other escort for the Tampa. There was no evidence of the divers below the ships.
Pacino turned the view on the pier between the Jianghu and the Udaloy. The buses were still there but the pier looked dark. There were no guards in sight, no sign of them being used for a crew off load
Pacino’s earpiece crackled with the voice of Chief Dylan Jeb, the sonar supervisor. Chief Jeb was a tall, thin sonar expert from the hills of Tennessee. His drawl on the combat circuits was so thick as to be nearly another language. Pacino had taken an immediate liking to the lanky sonar chief, despite his impenetrable accent. Jeb ran the BQQ-5 as naturally and adeptly as his ancestors had run the family still.
“Conn, Sonar, we’re getting new machinery noises off the hull and spherical arrays bearing north to the P.L.A piers. The bearing is ambiguous due to near-field effect. We’re working up a narrowband tonal profile but my guess is that Tampa’s engine room is steaming wait … we’re getting a series of transients from the same bearing … sounds like electrical breakers …”
“Chief, what do you think they’re doing?” Pacino said, snapping up the periscope grips and lowering the scope.
“We’re guessing, but it sounds like they’re starting up the steam plant, maybe shifting the electric plant to a half-power or full-power lineup.”
“Let me know when you’ve got the sound signature identified.”
A startup of the Tampa’s engine room … now what the hell could that be about? Would she be removed to another pier? And if so wouldn’t she just do that under the power of the ships tied up to her?
“Conn, Sonar, sound signature identified. The noise is coming from a late-flight 688-class U.S. submarine.”
“Any engine room sounds or transients from Targets One through Four?”
“No.”
All right, come on, Morris, Pacino thought, get this thing going.
Tarkowski’s face was white, whether with fear or from starvation or beatings. Probably all three. Murphy thought. He had been brought in by the guard and deposited on the settee at the far end of Murphy’s stateroom. He looked only once at Murphy. There seemed no recognition in his eyes, more the look of someone suffering so much pain he could not register the world around him. Whatever the Tampa’s navigator and acting exec had been through, there was no sign of it in his face, just the blank glaze on his eyes.
“Commander,” Tien said.
“I want the statement. I accept your indifference to your own welfare. But I know your men are important to you. You can save your executive officer now by making the statement. If you refuse, he will pay. Remember, Commander, I report to men less patient than I am. If it were not for my efforts, at considerable personal risk, I might add, they would have killed your crew long before now. I have also offended Beijing by insisting your ship be allowed to leave once we obtain your statement, but they have agreed. Look, here is the order.”
Tien waved a piece of paper before Murphy, the Chinese symbols written on it meaningless. He waited, got no response from Murphy.
“Commander, you force me to demonstrate my intent. Sai, give me Mr. Tarkowski’s right thumb.”
The guard pulled Tarkowski’s hand from his lap, laid it flat on the table, produced a bayonet, and proceeded to saw Tarkowski’s thumb from his right hand.
Tarkowski howled in pain, the sound wailing high in pitch as if coming from an animal; his eyes were shut, his mouth open wide to let out the shriek of agony.
The most frightening thing was that Tarkowski did not attempt to pull his hand away from the guard. What other unspeakable acts had he undergone? The guard wiped the bayonet on his thigh and held out the thumb to Murphy. When Murphy only stared at the guard, the guard dropped the flesh into his lap.
Tarkowski’s hand was still on the table, blood spurting out with the rhythm of his pulse. Tien Tse-Min tossed a bath towel to Tarkowski, who finally moved his left hand from his lap to cover his mangled right hand.
“Commander,” Tien began again, his voice calm, “you know a man may function without the use of his thumb, even without the use of his hand. Both hands.
Both feet. But there is one thing that makes a man a man. Fighter Sai, put Mr. Tarkowski’s penis on the table.”
Like he was asking for a cup of tea. Sai pulled Tarkowski to his feet, unzipped his poopy suit, allowing the coverall to fall to the deck. He dropped Tarkowski’s underwear to the deck, the coverall and underwear binding Tarkowski’s feet together.
Murphy tried to find his voice, but his throat was dry. It was like one of those nightmares in which the dreamer tries to scream and can’t.
“Ah … ah … I’ll… I’ll make the statement he tried to say, but the words came out a choked whisper.
Sai had already raised his bayonet. Tarkowski continued to stand like a robot at the table. Sai brought the knife edge down to Tarkowski’s penis. Tarkowski’s mouth opened, again a shriek.
“Stop!” Murphy’s voice finally came. “I’ll make the damned statement, I’ll make the statement … I’ll do it … Just stop, for God’s sake stop!”
Tien waved at Sai, who stopped the blade but did not release Tarkowski’s penis.
Tien wheeled over the TelePrompTer and the camera.
He rolled the camera. Just behind it Murphy could see the guard, the bayonet, the table, and Tarkowski’s penis. Above the camera, Tarkowski’s face had turned gray. Murphy tried to concentrate on the TelePrompTer. He began:
“My name is Commander Sean Murphy, United States Navy. I am the captain of the U.S. Navy nuclear-powered attack submarine Tampa …”
The statement went on for minute after minute, into what seemed like hours to Murphy. Through it all he tried to read and ignore the meaning of the words, but even with Tien’s flat face looking on, with Tarkowski still standing at the table. Murphy heard the words and wanted to throw up. He continued on, thinking that somehow Tien would pay, but also knowing the thought was a vain one. Finally the statement was finished.
Tien stopped the camera.
“Commander, I thank you for being a reasonable man. Fighter Sai, release Mr. Tarkowski.”
The guard released his hold on Tarkowski, underwear and coveralls still around his ankles.
“Let me help you, Tarkowski,” Tien said, bending and gently lifting Tarkowski’s underwear up and pulling his coveralls up over his shoulders. He zipped up the poopy suit and turned around to look at Murphy.
The guard rolled out the camera and video equipment.
For a moment Tien just looked at Murphy, then, his eyes still on Murphy’s face, he picked up a phone and spoke some orders into it.
Immediately the fans wound down, the air conditioning stopped, the lights flickered. The Circuit One announcing system again broadcast Lube Oil Vaughn’s voice to the ship, the voice empty of hope.
“REACTOR SCRAM,” the voice said.